Forever Instinct, The Page 2

  “Jordanna?”

  John’s quiet call drew her from her momentary preoccupation. With a start she realized the others were already on the trail. Flashing him a buoyant smile that she hoped would cover for her lag, she moved quickly ahead.

  Though the air was brisk, it wasn’t cold. Having checked the long-range forecast, Jordanna knew that there were no major storms expected. Chills she could easily withstand; the clothes she wore were designed to be lightweight and warm. Snow, though, she could do without. She was no glutton for punishment.

  The path was of crushed stone leading southward past several deserted campsites before entering deeper woods. She concentrated on walking steadily and shifted her pack once to a more comfortable position. She was grateful she hadn’t skimped in selecting her gear; her shoulder straps were well padded, her hip belt substantial enough to evenly distribute the load. Amazing what she’d learned about back-packing in such little time, she mused. She only hoped her cramming would pay off further along. Going to bed at 2:00 A.M. hadn’t been the smartest thing to do, particularly since she’d awoken at six to shower and dress and head out from New York. She would be tired tonight. But then, evenings on the trail were probably going to be quiet and early ones.

  Few words were spoken as the six walked on, each seeming too awed by the silent splendor of the woods to shatter its effect. They had left all civilization behind. Even the path was now of packed earth strewn with leaves. Larry, the photographer of the group, paused to take pictures from time to time. When he stopped to adjust his pack, Patrick assisted him while the others rested, occasionally sipping from canteens or flexing cramped shoulders.

  On the move once more, they came to a wetter area of ground, where a plank walkway had been constructed.

  “Someone was thoughtful,” Larry observed.

  “We’ll run across these from time to time,” Patrick explained, tapping his booted toe against the first of the planks. “But they’re not first and foremost for our benefit.”

  “Then whose?” Bill asked irreverently.

  “The earth’s,” Patrick answered. “Walkways like these retard soil erosion. Without them, some of the trails would be impassable, not to mention devoid of vegetation.” Without awaiting further comment, he went ahead. The others followed. What had been the symphonic rustling of dead leaves underfoot became a more percussive series of thuds as they progressed.

  Head down now, Jordanna studied the planks, then the soggy ground to either side as her professional instinct went to work. She wondered how her hiking shoes would hold up on wet ground. Had Patrick’s words not rung fresh in her ear, she might have been tempted to step off into the muck. But his words had hit their mark, and besides, she was hemmed in front and rear by men who would delight in any slip she made. A soggy shoe was not the most auspicious adjunct to a hike. Perhaps at the end of the trip, she decided, when no great harm could be done, she’d experiment.

  On dry ground once again, they climbed steadily along what Patrick announced to be Blue Brook until they reached a footbridge. There, at his direction, they lowered their packs for a rest. At first Jordanna was startled. They’d been walking for barely an hour. Only when she set her pack on the ground and straightened did she understand his motive. Though she thought herself in the best of shape, there seemed to be tiny muscles in her back that she’d never felt before. Stretching carefully, she eased down onto a nearby rock to savor the sight of the gurgling brook below.

  The men talked among themselves. She sat apart, perfectly comfortable with the distance. Solitude was a treat for her, given the number of people who rushed in and out of her working life. If the others left her to her own musings during the trek, she wouldn’t mind in the least.

  “Everything okay?”

  She looked up to find Patrick shading her from the sun.

  “Fine,” she answered quickly, her gaze darting back to a gentle cascade splashing into a pool. “It’s really beautiful.”

  His eyes followed hers. “It’s just the beginning. This season is the best. Minimum people, maximum nature.”

  Something in his tone said that he appreciated solitude as she did. Looking up, she studied the rugged planes of his face. He was unfairly handsome; time had served him well. “Do you–” she swallowed involuntarily and began again “–do you do this often?”

  He continued to stand beside her, legs braced wide. His dark hiking pants were well worn and fitted him comfortably. She sensed pure muscle beneath. “Backpacking? Whenever I can.”

  “Guiding,” she corrected, tutoring her thoughts away from his thighs. She wondered if he earned his living as an outdoorsman. Scanning her memory, she couldn’t recall having heard about him in recent years. But then, she realized, the mind did strange things. For years she’d blotted out anything and everything to do with football. She might have seen something in the paper and never taken it in.

  Eyes trained upstream, he didn’t spare her a glance. “Nah. I only take groups out once or twice a year, usually in late fall or early spring. When I go myself, it’s into more remote areas, ones I’ve never seen before.”

  “You’re an explorer then?”

  “Mmm.” As though loath to say more, he abruptly turned and wandered to a nearby boulder. Lithely hiking himself upon it he wrapped his arms around his knees to enjoy the scene a while longer.

  Staring after him, Jordanna wondered just what path he had taken in life. His playing days were over; forty-year-old quarterbacks were not exactly in demand. If he’d turned to coaching, he’d hardly have been able to take off for a week at the height of the season. On the other hand, he might well have entered broadcasting, where his presence on the weekend would suffice. He was eloquent; his initial speech to the group had proved that. And if the private type, he was hardly shy. Yet in the old days he had avoided the press. Peter had been the one to court them with every bit of charm he could manage, and that was considerable, she remembered with a scowl.

  But she didn’t want to think of Peter. Or Lance. Or the old days.

  With a deep breath she lowered her gaze. Her fingers idly slid through the dried brush by her side, but the startling image in her mind’s eye was of a softer, more vibrant brush, that of the dark hair peeping through the open neck of Patrick’s shirt as she’d seen it moments before. Stunned, she frowned, then reached for a dead leaf and crushed it along with the unbidden image. Refocusing on the enchantment of the stream, she let her mind trip pleasantly until, at length, Patrick hopped down from his perch and retrieved his pack in silent example to the others. With the wave of his hand, they were off again.

  Bathed in the relief of having donned her pack alone, Jordanna felt fresh of mind and decidedly confident. Eyes alert, she took in everything, from the pines swaying rhythmically above to the solid firs more stoically enduring the intrusion of humanity. The cliffs that banked the far side of the stream were granite slabs slicing neatly into the water, where, over ages, they were gentled by the crystal-clear flow.

  When the path took a turn upward, her legs were tested for the first time. She welcomed the exertion, enjoying the stretch as she always did in her early morning warm-ups. She found something intrinsically refreshing in the reminder that her body was far more than a machine to be taken for granted. Being well oiled took work. She liked testing her limits and even now lengthened her stride until she clearly felt the muscles of her thighs and calves. This appreciation of the physical was but one of the ways Willow Enterprises had benefited from its founder.

  As if in reminder, she touched her cheek, then reached back into a lower side pocket of her pack for a small tube of cream. Makeup was her specialty; indeed, cosmetics for the sports-minded woman had been the first order of business after Willow Enterprises’ founding. Its product line was extensive, and though it included the colorful creams and shadows desired by the fashion-conscious woman, its pride was a more practical line of moisturizing agents. The dab of cream now in her palm was one of these. She smoothed
it across the backs of her hands and around her fingers, then applied the excess to her cheeks and chin in a motion that might have been a simple soothing of flesh had any of the men noticed. Five days in the wilds without benefit of other makeup would put the cream to the test, as would the sun, even weak as it was, its protective qualities.

  Without missing a step, she comfortably kept her place in the casual line, breathing deeply of the scent of fall. Clusters of birches, their yellow leaves now pale and withering, had sprung up to share the forest with beeches and firs. High above, the cry of migrating geese echoed amid the breeze.

  “You look more spring than fall,” John commented, startling her as he drew abreast of her.

  She glanced down at her outfit, a stylish, lightly padded jacket cuffed at the waist and wrists, with matching pants that tapered, then zippered at the ankles. She was lime green from collar to heel.

  With a soft chuckle, she concurred. “It was a choice of this, bright yellow, soft pink or lavender. Somehow I thought the green would blend better with the woods.”

  “Isn’t that a jogging suit?”

  “Pretty much so, though we’re marketing it as an all-purpose sports outfit. The principles are the same. Loose and light but insulating. Actually, this jacket is warmer than a regular running shell. I’m really comfortable.” She looked far more so than any of the men, she admitted to herself with a certain amount of smugness. Their hiking jackets and pants were a sight heavier. Only Patrick with his anorak looked fully at ease.

  “Not bad,” John decided, then fell back several steps once more.

  Jordanna did feel comfortable, surprisingly so. She’d packed a heavy wool sweater, but she was counting on multiple layers of lighter coverings to keep her warm. Walking was one thing; despite the growing chill in the air as the afternoon wore on and the sun paled and dipped, she actually felt tiny trickles of perspiration on her back beneath her pack. When the day’s walk was done and they sat idle, ah, that would be a different matter.

  “How’s it going back there?” Patrick called from the front of the line. Three other heads swiveled around with his.

  “Just fine,” Jordanna assured them all with a smile.

  “Blisters?” Donald suggested.

  “Nope.”

  “Sore shoulders?” Bill hinted.

  She shook her head. “Sorry. Of course, if you guys are tired–”

  Just as abruptly as they’d looked back, all three faced forward again and moved on. Only Patrick lingered for a moment’s study of her serene expression. Then he too whipped around and was off.

  The remainder of the afternoon’s trek was pleasant and promising. Tuning out the men’s chatter, Jordanna derived from the outdoors the gratification she sought. The gentle sounds of the wild, the random rustle of tiny woodland creatures, the sweet scent of spruce – all were a soothing balm against the memory of the city’s bustle.

  Her body held up well; she smiled to herself when, behind her, John began to grunt as the trail climbed toward a ridge. When at last they reached the shelter where they’d be spending the night, she silently congratulated herself on a job well done.

  Half an hour later she began to wonder if her congratulations had been premature. It had been one thing when they were walking, single file for the most part, and she could easily lose herself to the joy of the forest. Stationary now, idly studying the three-sided log shelter, she let herself think for the first time of the awkwardness such closeness could present for a woman among five men.

  They’d all lowered their packs and were relaxing while Patrick set up the camp stove to heat water for hot drinks before dinner. A stream just north of the shelter was their water supply; he’d shown them the way before he’d set to work. Now there was little to do but relax until the business of making dinner began.

  As had happened during the afternoon, the men talked among themselves, ignoring Jordanna as much as possible. She studied them as she sat on the ground, then reached into her pack to change into a pair of soft moccasins. She wore two pairs of socks, a thin inner pair and an outer pair of thicker wool rag. Her feet were toasty, though she still felt chilled. Digging into the pack again, she pulled out a heavy wool cap and tugged it on over her stylishly cropped thick chestnut hair.

  She had settled back once more when Patrick suddenly moved from the stove to his own pack. As she watched, he shed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. She held her breath when the shirt came off to reveal corded shoulders and a lean torso. When he bent to fish into the pack, she was held by the play of his muscles, sinewed and firm, flexing grandly as he reached forward. Then he straightened and, as though physically touched by her gaze, slowly turned his head to look at her.

  Jordanna felt a strange thudding in her chest. She tried to look away, but his dark eyes were locked to hers. Then, as slowly as he’d turned his head, he began to approach, stopping only when he was within arm’s reach of her. His long-sleeved, insulated shirt hung limply from his fingers. With catlike grace, he lowered himself to his haunches.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked softly.

  She quickly shook her head and dropped her eyes, not altogether prudently, to the soft pelt of fur on his chest. He had to be cold, yet he looked warm and alive, making her, to her dismay, feel the same.

  “You’re sure?”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. But her eyes clung to his flesh. Her fingers curled into her palms.

  “You’ll catch a chill,” she whispered.

  “Are you worried?” he returned in that same soft voice. It held a touch of silk this time, its smoothness shimmering into her.

  “You’re our leader,” she managed. “It wouldn’t help us if you got sick.”

  “I’ve got an iron constitution.”

  “So I see,” she said, then willed the words erased. The flush that rose to her cheeks had little to do with the brisk early-evening air.

  Then she caught sight of a pale scar at his shoulder and, without thinking, reached up to touch it. Patrick’s flinch was involuntary but quickly controlled, and he held steady while her fingertip traced the mark.

  “Battle scar?”

  He hesitated a minute. When he spoke, his silken tone held grains of sand. “Of sorts. Throwing a football for years can do great things to a man.”

  “When…?”

  He cleared his throat. “My last year. It made the decision to retire that much easier.” His voice was devoid of bitterness, indeed of all emotion, in keeping with his eyes.

  She nodded dumbly, unaware that her finger remained on his skin until he grabbed her hand and pressed it to his flesh, inching it downward and around the muscled swell of his chest. His flesh was firm beneath her palm, his heartbeat much more steady than her own. When her fingertip grazed his tight nipple, her gaze shot to his.

  “Have a thing for jocks?” he asked on a velvet note of mockery. When she grabbed her hand away, he readily released it.

  “That was unnecessary,” she scolded unevenly.

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug, then looked down and slid his arms onto the shirt. “It’d make sense. Peter… me.…”

  “You’re almost as crude as Bill.”

  His eyes met hers as he raised the shirt, lifted his arms and eased his head through its collar. Jordanna suspected the leisurely way he stretched into the knit was deliberate; extended, his body looked all the more powerful. His summer’s tan lingered attractively, only slightly paler beneath his arms amid the soft, dark hair that sprouted there.

  “Bill doesn’t know you,” he said, his voice muffled through the shirt.

  “Neither do you!” she exclaimed, indignation rising to displace all thoughts.

  Without hurry, he smoothed the shirt down over his chest. “I know who you are.”

  “So do I. I’m Jordanna Kirkland of Willow Enterprises. Period.”

  His voice lowered and grew harder. “You’re also Peter Kirkland’s ex-wife.”

  Jordanna studied him closely, her eyes growi
ng sharp. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  “Why should it bother me?” he asked with a nonchalance that didn’t extend to the telltale flex of his jaw.

  “Because you and Peter were rivals from the start. Because Peter bested you once too often.” Goaded by instinct, she barreled on. “Because maybe, just maybe, you find me attractive.”

  His back suddenly ramrod straight, Patrick stared at her for a minute. Then, with neither admission nor denial, he rose and returned to his pack. As abruptly, Jordanna shifted to lie against her own, facing away from the rest. Throwing an arm across her eyes, she took a deep, calming breath and willed the image of a lean, sun-bronzed chest to self-destruct. When it refused to do so, she forced her mind back to New York, burying her thoughts in Willow Enterprises as she’d done now for ten long years.

  She wasn’t sure if she dozed off, but when John came to offer her a cup of coffee, she opened her eyes with a start and sat up.

  “Thanks,” she said, mustering a weak smile.

  “Tired?”

  “A little. It’s been a long day.”

  He hunkered down beside her to nurse his own hot brew. “You drove all the way from New York this morning?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then you must be dead. We all came up yesterday and slept late this morning.”

  She threw a cursory glance toward the others. “Have you families?”

  “Three wives and seven kids among us. Bill’s a bachelor.”

  “How do you know each other?”

  “We were college friends.”

  This time her smile was more natural. “You’re kidding! And you’ve stayed close all this time?”

  “Actually, no. We went separate ways after graduation – Don to dental school, Bill to business school, Larry to work with his dad, Craig to get his CPA.”

  She took a sip of her coffee, savoring its warmth as it slid down her throat. “And you?”

  “I went on for a Ph.D. in math. I teach now.”